


Human Touch

by SpyderScully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, MSR, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 07, The Season of Secret Sex, atths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpyderScully/pseuds/SpyderScully
Summary: A glimpse "through the seasons" at Mulder's feelings for Scully as their relationship develops and how he *ahem* "deals" with them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think this can be considered my first "story", in that I intended for it to have a point versus my usual M.O. of writing snippets and scenes. It was a lot of hard work but I'm pleased with it and I hope everyone enjoys it.
> 
> Tremendous thanks to the incomparable storybycorey, who was tremendously patient and betaed this story several times at its various stages.

Stepping into his apartment after work, he goes about his standard routine: loosening his tie, digging through the fridge, flopping onto the couch, and finally, watching porn until his brain shuts off long enough for a three hour stretch of sleep.  
  
He’s restless tonight, and is gratified when he realizes he never removed last night’s tape from the VCR. With a slight blip of static, the picture blinks to life, and he settles into the cushions, watching passively as a redhead goes down on a brunette. He feels a slight surge of arousal between his thighs, but not enough to demand his attention. At least not yet. He shifts to make himself more comfortable as "Daisy" straightens up to look at her prone partner. She's kind of cute, with slightly curled shoulder-length hair and a small Roman nose. Come to think of it, she reminds him a bit of his new partner.  
  
_'Scully's prettier.'_ The thought comes so suddenly and unbidden he's almost startled. Scully? He's only recently begun to view her as anything other than a potential hindrance to his quest; if not a friend, at least a competent colleague. She is sexless, friendly, unobtainable. She is...Well, she’s just Scully.  
  
But now, seeing her resemblance to the woman on the videotape, his view shifts. Just a bit. But enough.  
  
He thinks of her slender frame when she actually takes off those damn billowy blazers, the glowing ivory of her skin, those damn blow job lips. The ache in his groin is growing more pronounced now, and his gaze wanders slightly from the flickering images on his screen. Instead, his mind is now unconsciously flipping through its collection of Scully snapshots. He thinks of the bemused twist of her eyebrow, a quirk of hers he used to find annoying, but now admits is quite charming, the way the tip of her nose gets red when she's cold, the little freckle on the right side of her neck. And those eyes, big and wet and blue...  
  
His mind unwittingly goes back to their recent case in Bellefleur, and he recalls the smoothness of her skin as her robe slipped off her arms and down her torso. He’d examined the marks on the small of her back, and she’d almost gleamed in the candlelight. His groin aches with the memory.  
  
He thinks about Scully touching a woman, about a woman touching Scully, about watching Scully come. Jesus. He's hard, his entire body surging with hot blood and his muscles clenching with arousal. Without even looking at the screen he unzips his pants, giving himself a tentative stroke. He shudders, the images in his mind now flooding fast and strong: Scully being licked by Brunette #2, Scully caressing her breasts, Scully crying out as she comes. Within a few minutes, he is spent and groaning in relief.  
  
He lays motionless afterward, surprised, confused. It's Friday night. He has the weekend before he has to see her again. He’d better start figuring out what the hell the last ten minutes meant before then.  
  
///  
  
She's gone and he has no idea what he can do to change that. Sometimes he swears he can hear her calling for him, needing his help and begging that he hear her. No matter how hard he listens, no matter whom he pursues, no matter how deeply he digs, he comes up empty. Every time.  
  
Miserable and feeling more alone than he ever has, he sinks into the couch, picking up the remote as he settles in. The TV blinks to life, displaying a science special that Scully would probably love—something about primordial elements. He finds himself thinking a lot about her preferences these days: Scully would like that, Scully would find that funny, Scully would smirk at that. For not the first time since her disappearance, he wishes she were here, watching this boring documentary and debating the primitive oceans of earth and the origins of life with him.  
  
He pictures her sitting primly beside him on the couch, dressed in her suit and heels, until gradually the image softens and melds itself into a much more intimate arrangement. He in sweats, she in a tee shirt and leggings, both of them lying nestled deep within the cushions. She's cuddled against his chest, her rear pressed comfortably into the cradle of his hips. The cozy vision is surprisingly arousing, and he feels himself hardening against her imaginary body.  
  
Tentatively, he imagines running his hand down her belly (he’s thought of her many times since that night with the video, but never with this kind of intimacy) before carefully sliding it down the front of her panties. Her curls are shockingly soft and when fantasy Scully murmurs in approval, he dares to think of going further, of running his fingers through her velvety warmth. In his mind's eye, she shudders against his side as she comes, letting out an uncontrolled whimper of pleasure. As he envisions her body relaxing and softening against his, he grunts, and she vanishes just as he spurts hot and fast onto his hand and stomach—he wasn’t even aware he’d been stroking himself.  
  
For the first time since she's been gone, he allows himself tears, stunned by how much she's burrowed herself into his life, despite months of his underestimating and distrusting her. She's become his friend, one of the kindest he's had, and guilt and fear are now becoming interlaced with feelings he's not yet prepared to face. His need to find her has grown exponentially with each passing day, and after tonight, he is close to reaching his breaking point.  
  
///  
  
He scuffs into his apartment at 8:16 PM on a Friday night, arms limp by his sides. It seems every day is one day more that she's wasting away, slipping out of his grasp. Her face is gaunt, her hair brittle, the beautiful eyes that once housed the spirit of a soldier are dimmed. He’s promised himself so much (promised her as well, even if only in his mind), if she just gets well. _I'll get you a desk, Scully. I won't pretend that I don't know your birthday, Scully. I'll kiss every inch of you, Scully. I'll tell you I love you, Scully..._  
  
A surge of sadness and anger curls through him. It stirs his dick and he's surprised. He hasn't touched himself for weeks, his nightly visions of Scully—once warm, breathless, and flourishing—now replaced by feelings of guilt and helplessness.  
  
With an intensity that surprises him, he sinks onto his couch and pulls himself from his pants, not bothering with even the lights or the TV. This kind of self-castigation is best left in the dark. Taking himself roughly in hand, he’s ashamed at the weak whimper that escapes his throat.  He doesn’t need evidence of his pain, especially not that mixed with such visceral physical pleasure.  
  
As he always does when he touches himself, he lets her essence wash over him. He thinks of how unearthly beautiful she is, even despite her diminished appetite and impaired energy. Sometimes he forgets that she's dying and can only think about the creamy softness of her skin, the silk of her hair, her spirit, her mind, her body...There's been a shift in his perspective since the diagnosis. He sometimes feels caught between the intense desire to keep her safe and the unbearable need to bury himself inside her—to fuck her illness and pain away. The veins in his temples bulge, and he relishes the headache it gives him. His grip on his cock is rough and fast, and by the time he’s at the end, he's barely thinking of her anymore, he’s only thinking of the pain and the anger and the release.  
  
When he finally finishes, it's with a grief-laden bellow; the pleasure is short-lived and over before he's even stopped trembling. He feels dirty and ashamed and empty. His best friend is dying, and he's jerking himself off with the ferocity of an animal. How the hell is he supposed to help her when he can't even help himself? He falls onto the couch, punishing himself by sleeping in his own bitter fluids.  
  
///  
  
He knows she's upset with him. If she weren't, she wouldn't have gone to bed as early as she did. At the very least, she wouldn’t have left on that hideous face mask that he _knows_ she doesn’t use. He’s crashed into her apartment at all hours of the evening and night over the years, and not once has he seen her anything but bare-faced and scrubbed clean. Beautiful. He shouldn’t have made the crack about scrubbing the toilet with her toothbrush. Or any of the other insipid remarks he’s made over the past 48 hours.  
  
So that's why she’s upstairs and he's down here on the couch.  
  
Ordinarily she’d take his good-natured ribbing with some jabs of her own, or at least there’d be a smile accompanying the roll of her eyes. But he just seems to irritate her now. That’s partly why he keeps teasing her. He’s hoping to catch just a glimpse of that playfulness, a hint of the easiness, especially given how tense things have been between them lately. He tries to touch her, poke her, pull her into his side. Scully’s never been uncomfortable with him before, now it seems that’s all she is.  
  
He’s kidding himself if he thinks there’s no reason for her distance. His past life and present life have collided with the return of Diana, and while he has been defensive, Scully just doesn’t seem to get it. Diana poses no threat to her. While he’s guilty of making allowances and trying to reach out to an old friend, Scully is simply in a class all on her own. He trusts and…yes, loves her more than anyone in his life, past _or_ present. He doesn’t know how to make her see that though, he’s never been good at expressing his emotions.  
  
If he were brave, he’d do things differently. If he weren't scared to death of losing her, perhaps tonight could play out another way. He imagines climbing the stairs to the bedroom, slipping beneath the comforter and apologizing for every wrong he's ever committed by pressing his mouth to the juncture of her smooth thighs. Or maybe she comes downstairs dragging a blanket behind her, and she snuggles into his arms on the couch, kissing him so thoroughly he simply _has_ to peel her pajamas off with his teeth. He wants to make love to her slowly, bathing her body in pleasure. He wants her to know that she is everything to him. She has been healing his wounds since she walked into his office six years ago. She has soothed his hurts and banished his fears. He wants to do all of that for her, too.  
  
_"I love you,"_ he wants to whisper to her, _"Please forgive me. I’ll make it up to you—all of it—Diana, your sister, the cancer, everything. Please just give me a chance, Scully. I need you so much it hurts…”_  
  
These thoughts always end with the same scenario in his mind: with both of them warm, damp and sated, Scully curled securely in his arms. He tells her he loves her and she always, always says it back. He envisions covering every inch of her beautiful face with kisses until she drifts off to sleep in his arms, his fingers stroking through her hair. This image is not a new one; for the past year or so his psyche has taken his feelings of desire and lust for her, and it’s combined them with his undying trust and respect of her. The fusion has simply become a part of him now.  
  
His cock is pressed rigidly against the seam of his pants and he absently slides his hand against it. It feels good so he presses harder, cupping himself and gnawing at his lip. God, he wants her so bad…he hates that they’re so close in this house and yet she’s never been more of a stranger.  
  
He thinks about better times between them, both real and imagined, and he has to clamp down on his lips to avoid making a sounds as he rubs himself. The thought of this being _real_ , of the two of them living here together in this house, married, is the catalyst that sends him over the edge and he climaxes, his mouth open in a silent scream so as not to awaken the subject of his dreams.  
  
He’s exhausted afterwards, and it takes a good few minutes for him to stop trembling. He knows he should clean up. The stains on his sweats will make it pretty apparent tomorrow what he’s been doing, but he’s too tired. With a grunt he pulls the afghan from where it is draped over the back of the couch and wraps it around himself. The thought of Scully curled up soft, relaxed, and naked in rumpled sheets is the last thing that crosses his mind before he falls into a fitful sleep.  
  
///  
  
He strips off his gym clothes as soon as he's through the door, wanting to wash off the grime of his ten mile run. He turns the shower on then briefly stands half naked before his open closet, trying to decide what the hell to wear.  
  
He's seeing Scully later tonight, and his stomach actually flutters with nervous anticipation. Because it's not coffee after work, it's not coercing his way into her apartment to talk about a case, and it's not even beer and pizza over a TV movie.  
  
No, it's dinner. It's a date. He has a date with Scully.  
  
Neither of them called it that, but they didn't have to. With each passing month they've gotten closer. Past hurts have been soothed, time outside of work is often spent in each other's company, and they've even been talking more. More than once Scully has clearly indicated her desire to move their relationship to the next level, leaving him overwhelmed and tongue-tied with hope. She's been touching him more, the contact familiar and gentle. She's been laughing and smiling so much, sometimes meeting his innuendo and bad jokes with some of her own. Sometimes he catches her gazing at him, her face so beautiful and open that it makes his stomach clench. Eventually he'd finally worked up enough courage to ask her if she'd go to dinner with him.  
  
"I'd like that, Mulder," she’d said, accompanied by a soft smile and eyes warm with invitation.  
  
He steps into the shower, her words running through his head, except somehow his brain has now made the leap from “I’d like that Mulder” to "I'd like that, Mulder, and I like you too..."  
  
The water is scalding and it sends a shiver of pleasure through him. He wonders what she's going to wear tonight. His cock stirs at the possibilities. Holding himself gently, he caresses and strokes in a way he never has before, and he realizes he's imagining how Scully would do this, how Scully would touch him. He cups his balls, shuddering under the needles of the shower spray, pretending just for a moment that she's under this heated water with him, the droplets of water on her freckled shoulders just begging for his tongue. He smiles as he grips his shaft, losing himself in the fantasy of making love to her against the dripping walls of the shower, on his couch, in the embracing sheets of her bed. He wants to give her the kind of pleasure she's only dreamed of; he wants to go beyond even that.  
  
The thought of her smiling softly as she allows him inside her body for the first time proves to be too much, and he groans, his hips thrusting sporadically as the evidence of his fantasy splatters silently against the shower stall. He stands for a moment, steadying himself with his arm against the wall, his body trembling and heaving. As he pants his way back to neutrality, the steam is suddenly stifling, and he quickly twists the water off, groping clumsily for his towel before rubbing himself dry.  
  
He feels energized, alive, hopeful. It's the best he's felt in years. Scully wants him. Scully wants to be with him.  
  
_'I'd like that, Mulder,'_ her soft voice says in his head, carrying a tone of sweetness he's never heard before. He shudders. It's going to happen, he can feel it. And he can't wait.  
  
///  
  
They’re tangled in her sheets, wrapped snuggly in a proverbial safe cocoon. He's feeling warm and content, his arm draped loosely around Scully's smooth back, still damp from their earlier exertions. Her hair is mussed, and the mark on her collarbone will unfortunately soon blossom into a vivid bruise—"Dammit, Mulder!" she’ll say, but she'll be grinning, and he’ll grin, too, because how can they do anything but grin after a night like this? She's never looked more beautiful to him. She's pressed against his side, her gentle fingers combing absently through the hair on his chest. She lets out occasional little murmurs of contentment, and he relishes the way they reverberate through him.  
  
He nuzzles her cheek and moves for a kiss, which she smilingly reciprocates. She looks so pleased, and it leaves him with a sense of wonder that he might be a little responsible for that pleasure. Her hand drifts from his chest down his belly to gently clasp his relaxed but receptive cock. She strokes him steadily, her touch warm, firm, and loving. He groans, slightly arching his back as he succumbs to her attentions.  
  
"I didn't get to do much of this the first two times,” she says coyly. Her grin is playful and it strikes him not only in his groin, but deep in his belly. Happy, soft, flirty Scully makes him want to cry and laugh simultaneously. It makes him ache even more than when he hadn't known what it was like to run his hands over her, to love her. Now she's here, and her gentle hands are caressing him and loving him and he still can't believe it's real.  
  
He wants to touch her and he reaches forward to comb his fingers through the damp curls between her legs, but she shakes her head sharply, her blazing blue eyes meeting his with a firm glance. She wants to do this for him, and while he’d love to reciprocate, he can't refuse her anything. Especially when she's squeezing him with the perfect amount of pressure to make him shudder.  
  
She nuzzles her face into his neck and he feels her light breath brush rhythmically against his skin. Every hair on his body stands on end. She's whispering words that make him shiver, and every firm stroke is followed by a swipe of her thumb across a spot that is directly connected to the base of his spine. It’s so damn good, so much better than he has ever envisioned. His fantasies never accounted for the softness of her skin against his side, or the silken touch of her hair on his shoulder, or the breathless sound of her voice asking him to stay the night, before they’d even shared a kiss. Now she's biting and kissing his neck and he feels like he's going to die because of a damn hand job. It's so good...she's so fucking good...  
  
“Mulder…” Her voice is so low and husky, and he almost doesn’t hear her through the mind-numbing pleasure encompassing his body.  
  
“W-what, Scully?” He feels a soft kiss below his ear and he moans.  
  
"Let go for me, Mulder. I want to see you let go.”  
  
The words go simultaneously to his heart and his cock, and he lets out a strangled cry.  
  
"God...Scully, FUCK!” His back arches and he bursts in her hand, his fingers gripping the sheets and then the warm flesh of her ass. He feels blind, the physical sensations so strong, all he can do is thrash and groan. Her touch remains until he’s spent, his head tilted back, eyes closed as he gasps for breath. He barely registers that she’s gently thrusting her hips against his side and the wet slide against his skin makes him wonder if she came. The thought is almost enough to make him hard again.  
  
She leaves to get a washcloth to clean him, and by the time she’s lying back down and kissing his eyebrow, he has enough strength to pull her back into his arms, kissing her soundly before tucking her as close as he can into his chest. She makes a sound that he will eventually understand to mean “blissfully happy Scully” and nuzzles herself further against him.  
  
As he drifts to sleep, she softly traces a thumb across his features, drawing a path across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and against his lips. She presses a kiss to his chin before she settles, her silky hair cool against his throat. Every inch of her body against his is heaven.  
  
It’s been so long since he’s felt anyone’s touch but his own.    
  
He doesn’t want to go back to that place ever again.


End file.
